


all or nothing way of loving

by symphony7inAmajor



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Curses, First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Magic, accidental arson, kyle connor's beautiful eyelashes, larks just here for the vibe, mark "heck" scheifele, the tropery here.... impeccable, yes kc has fire magic because he's ginger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:57:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22243879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/symphony7inAmajor/pseuds/symphony7inAmajor
Summary: It's really just Mark's luck that he gets hit with a love curse on a game day. Kyle isn't affected, at least, and he knows how to help.(it's hard not to feel disappointed by that.)
Relationships: Kyle Connor/Mark Scheifele
Comments: 16
Kudos: 120





	all or nothing way of loving

**Author's Note:**

> good afternoon.... you know i am back on my rare pair warrior grind!
> 
> title from "someone you loved" by lewis capaldi

Mark notices that something is wrong the instant he steps into the locker room and all conversation stops. Every eye is locked on him, scrutinizing, assessing. 

“Um,” Mark says. “Good morning?”

Nikolaj sighs, the sound catching Mark’s attention. He watches with mild horror as Nikolaj flutters his eyelashes at him. “You have such a way with words,” Nikolaj says dreamily. 

A few others murmur and nod in agreement. Even  _ Patrik,  _ which makes Mark feel like the whole world has flipped on its head.

“You’re looking really good today, Scheif,” Connor says, looking him up and down slowly with dark eyes. He licks his lips.

“What,” Mark squeaks. “What’s going on? Is this a prank?” The idea that this weird and sudden obsession might just be a bad joke makes Mark relax. 

A heavy arm drapes over his shoulders and in his surprise, Mark lets himself get pulled into the person’s side. “You look a little stressed,” Blake says. “Are you okay?” He strokes his fingers up and down Mark’s shoulder and all sense of relaxation dissolves in an instant.

Mark shoves him away. “Am  _ I  _ okay?” His voice is shrill, but his team is freaking him out. “Why do you—Why are you all looking at me like that?” He shuffles back a step, arms crossed over his chest.

“Come on, Wheels, you’re scaring him,” Adam says, standing up. His hands are balled into fists at his sides and the light in his eyes when he looks at Mark makes any thanks die in his throat.

Blake and Adam glare at each other from across the room, both of them looking like they might start throwing punches at any moment. Mark takes the distraction and slips out the door.

He doesn’t wait for anyone to follow him, just starts off down the hallway to get back to his car. It’s not safe to be around the team right now. He’s pretty sure that none of that was a prank.

He looks down at his hands and flexes his fingers. He’s no mage, but he’d bet that his team is cursed. Cursed how, he isn’t sure. He’ll need to find a cursebreaker for that.

He’s so distracted that he doesn’t notice the coaching staff until he’s almost standing on top of them. 

“Mark?” Maurice looks confused. “Where are you going?”   


“Sorry, Coach,” Mark says. He glances back over his shoulder, worried that the team might be trying to find him. “I can’t practice today. The team is cursed or something, I don’t think it’s safe.”    


“Cursed?” Maurice blinks, and Mark notices that unfamiliar look in his eyes. “Why don’t you come with me,” Maurice continues. “We can discuss it in private.”    


“Oh, come  _ on,” _ Mark says, not sure who he’s complaining to, exactly, and he gets out of there as fast as he can. He shudders.  _ Gross. _

He’s almost running when he rounds a corner and slams straight into Kyle. Neither of them have time to catch themselves and they tumble to the floor in a mess of limbs.    


“Ow.” Mark banged his elbow on the floor when he fell. It  _ hurts. _

“Sorry,” Kyle says, wincing as he sits up. He gets to his feet and reaches down to help Mark up.

Mark looks at his hand for a long moment, then stands up by himself. He ignores the stung expression on Kyle’s face. It’s not real, anyway. “Where have you been?” he asks. He keeps a careful distance between them, his arms half-raised in case he needs to shove Kyle back and make a run for it.

“My car wouldn’t start this morning,” Kyle says slowly. He looks carefully at Mark, taking in his defensive posture before shuffling back a step. “Scheif, what’s going on? Where are you going?” The only thing in his eyes is confusion and uncertainty. The curse hasn’t touched him. 

Mark ignores the part of his mind that’s  _ disappointed _ by that. He should know better. “The team is cursed,” Mark says. “I think it’s, um.” He blushes. “A love curse.”

Kyle’s eyes widen. “Are you serious,” he says flatly. “Don’t fuck with me, dude.”

“I’m serious!” Mark says. He can’t be too outraged by Kyle’s doubtful expression. He probably wouldn’t believe it, either. “Wheels and Lows looked like they were about to hit each other. Their eyes… it was all wrong.”

“You’re serious,” he breathes. He tilts his head. “You’re okay?” 

“Yeah, aside from Coach trying to hit on me,” Mark says, making a face at the memory. 

Kyle’s shocked face is adorable. “Ew,” he says. That about sums it up. Kyle shakes it off. “You need a cursebreaker, right?” 

Mark nods. “I don’t know any, though. I was just going to get out of here first and then, uh. Go from there?” Admitting he didn’t have a plan is embarrassing, but it’s not like Kyle can blame him.

“I might know someone,” Kyle says. He studies Mark’s face. “We’ll have to wait until tonight, though.”

“What!” Mark almost shrieks. “Why?” There’s a game tonight, for crying out loud. How is he expected to play when all—okay, most of his teammates are falling over themselves to get close to him.

“Because my cursebreaker is on the Wings,” Kyle tells him, looking pained to say it. 

_ What.  _ “You’re not serious.” Few mages powerful enough to become cursebreakers ever do anything else. For Kyle’s friend to be a professional hockey player is unheard of. Mark shakes his head. “We can’t wait that long,” he protests. “How are we going to win the game when nobody can concentrate?”

Kyle bites his lip. “You’re not going to like this,” he warns. 

Mark rolls his eyes. “Oh, it gets worse?” He winces at the hurt look Kyle gives him. “I’m sorry, I know you’re trying to help.” He pushes a hand through his hair. “I’m just—I’m worried about the team.”

“I know,” Kyle says. He sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. He looks down at the floor for a second, then back up at Mark. There’s steel in his expression that startles Mark. “You can’t play tonight.”

Mark opens his mouth. Closes it. He doesn’t know what to say. “I have to play,” he says, because what else is he supposed to do if not play hockey? “The curse—”   


“The curse affects the whole team,” Kyle interrupts, “but only if  _ you’re _ around, right? If you play, we’ll lose for sure. Is that what you want?”    


“I—” Mark’s hands twitch at his sides and he looks away. “Fine,” he grinds out. “Tell the team what’s wrong. I’m going home.” He brushes by Kyle, furious that magic is taking hockey away from him.

Kyle catches his hand. “Scheif,” he says helplessly, “Mark, I’m—”    


His hand is warm just like it always is. Mark knows Kyle has some rudimentary fire magic, and that it keeps his skin warm all the time. Right now, Mark kind of wants to fall into his warmth and forget everything else.

He wrenches his hand away and immediately misses the heat. “Don’t be like them,” he says quietly, his voice carefully steady despite the anger and fear beneath it. “I need—I need to trust you right now. Please.” He finally lifts his head to look at Kyle. 

“You can trust me,” Kyle says, and Mark believes him. 

“Thanks, KC.” Mark forces a weak smile. “Keep me posted, I guess.” 

Kyle nods and turns away. Mark watches him go until he disappears around the corner and out of sight.

For lack of anything better to do, Mark goes home.    


It’s boring, and it’s lonely, and Mark is twitchy with how badly he wants to be skating. He makes a smoothie and drinks it slowly, staring out the window as snow starts to fall.

Nobody calls and nobody texts. By early evening, Mark feels like a ghost in his own home, not sure if he really exists anymore. In his despair, Mark wonders if maybe the curse made the team forget about him. 

Mark wraps himself in a blanket and stares out into the dark gloomily. There’s something on TV, but Mark isn’t paying attention. It’s on mute anyway. 

His phone lights up with an incoming call from Kyle and he answers immediately. 

“It’s not the team,” Kyle opens with, which—what? 

“What?”    


“It isn’t the team,” Kyle repeats. “It’s  _ you.” _

_ “Me?” _ Mark flops sideways so he can lie down properly. “What are you talking about?” 

“You must’ve really annoyed somebody, Scheif!” someone who isn’t Kyle says loudly in the background. There’s a scuffling noise and Kyle swears, but his laugh spoils any illusions of anger.

“Sorry about him,” Kyle says, annoyance and affection in his voice. He clears his throat. “You have a love curse. The curse is on you. Everyone—uh, almost everyone is affected, so, like, don’t go outside until it’s broken.”

“Oh,” Mark says. He doesn’t know what else there is to say. He has questions—he wants to know who the cursebreaker is, if that’s who’s with Kyle and what the mage is to Kyle, but he doesn’t want to ask like this. It’s not his business, either.

“We’ll come over after the game and fix it,” Kyle says, tearing him out of his reverie. “I promise.”    


Mark can almost see his earnest blue eyes as he promises everything is going to be alright. “Okay,” Mark whispers. “Win the game for me, would you?”   


Kyle laughs. “You got it,” he says, and Mark can hear the grin in his voice. “See you later, Scheif.” Kyle hangs up, leaving Mark alone in the silence of his apartment with the phone to his ear.

It’s longer than Mark would like to admit before he lowers his phone.   


He watches the game from his lonely apartment, wishing he could be on the ice between Kyle and Patrik. Where he belongs. He watches Kyle score off a pass from Blake and sinks deeper into his couch, miserable.

The Jets win and Mark turns off his TV. He pulls up his text conversation with Kyle and types out a quick  _ door is unlocked.  _ He studies the messages they’d exchanged before that.

Their next game is in Detroit, and Kyle had asked Mark if he wanted to join him for dinner at his family’s. He said that his parents like him. That his mom thinks Mark is a “nice boy.” Mark’s thumb hovers over the screen as he reads the texts.

_ you should come,  _ Kyle said,  _ if you want to. it’d be fun. my mom makes killer lasagna.  _

_ Maybe,  _ Mark had replied. He hadn’t been sure, then, if he’d be able to stand it. The closeness with Kyle. With his family. He thought it would be too close to what he wants, but not  _ enough, _ and it would hurt. He wishes now that he’d just said  _ yes. _

It’s obvious now, in retrospect. Mark holds his phone close to his chest and stares up at the ceiling. Of course the curse wouldn’t affect the one person who is already in love with him.

Mark closes his eyes and thinks while he waits for Kyle. Kyle’s enthusiastic cellies, his head thrown back when he laughs, the crinkles at his eyes when he smiles, the way his gaze drops to Mark’s mouth when he’s chewing on his mouthguard. 

Mark wonders how long he’s gone without noticing.

It’s not like he wasn’t looking  _ back. _

He’s still lying on the couch when he hears the door open. He doesn’t get up, listening as Kyle and his friend take off their shoes and make their way inside. 

“Scheif?” Kyle calls tentatively. 

Mark wrestles an arm free of the blanket and sticks it over the back of the couch. “Over here,” he answers. He drops his arm over his face. 

Kyle’s warm hand touches his wrist and Mark moves his arm to look up at him. He’s quick enough that he catches the soft expression on Kyle’s face before he can school it into something more casual.

“Larks,” he says, and points at Mark, “fix Scheif.” 

Dylan Larkin steps into view. That’s a surprise—Mark had no idea he was a mage when they’d been on Team North America together. He has a leather bag slung over one shoulder. He looks at Mark and blinks hard a couple times. “Hey,” he says, his voice low in a way that doesn’t really sound natural.

Kyle looks pained. “Larks,” he says kindly, “remember the curse.”

Mark sits up and extends a hand to shake. “Good to see you, man,” he says because while they’re not exactly friends, they were teammates once. 

Dylan takes the proffered hand, but he doesn’t really shake. Instead, he sort of. Strokes Mark’s palm while gazing deeply into his eyes. About what Mark expected, really.

“Okay, bud,” Mark says, pulling his hand back carefully. “Can you break the curse?”

Dylan takes his bag and places it on the coffee table. “Anything for you,” he declares. 

Kyle makes a weird coughing noise and Mark looks over to see him stifling a laugh into his palm. Mark catches his eye and shakes his head in exasperation. Kyle wrinkles his nose, grinning at Mark’s reaction.

Dylan is pulling things out of his bag and setting them on the table, occasionally glancing at Mark. These looks seem more professional and assessing, and Mark is relieved that Dylan’s mage training is just as powerful as the curse.

Kyle sits beside Mark on the couch, eyes trained on Dylan to watch him work his magic. Mark wonders if Kyle can see it—he’s heard stories that some mages can literally see the threads of magic in the air as spells are cast—but he doesn’t ask. He thinks he’ll have time later. 

“That was a nice goal,” he says instead, soft enough that Dylan can’t hear.    


“You were watching?” He doesn’t wait for Mark to reply—of course he was watching. “Thanks. I missed you out there, though.”

_ I missed being out there,  _ Mark doesn’t say, but he presses his shoulder against Kyle’s briefly.

He turns his attention back to Dylan’s work.

There’s a bowl in the centre of the table, wooden and carved with unfamiliar designs. Dylan is measuring and emptying ingredients from his bag into the bowl, murmuring unknown words as he does so.

After a few minutes of this, Dylan reaches into his bag and pulls out a small, curved knife. The hilt and scabbard are both carved with similar designs to the bowl. There’s an inscription on the blade when Dylan unsheathes it, but Mark can’t read it.

Dylan extends a hand to Mark. “Your hand,” he says.

Mark hesitates. He didn’t know he’d have to bleed for this.

Kyle leans closer and nudges him in the ribs. Mark can smell his shampoo and, under that, the faint scent of woodsmoke that seems to follow him everywhere. “Hey,” he says, his voice soft, “it’s okay.” He smiles lopsidedly. “You can hold my hand if you want.”

Mark thinks he’s bled for less.   


He doesn’t bother answering Kyle with words. He takes Kyle’s hand and lets Dylan take his free hand. He ignores the way Dylan pets his thumb over the pulse point of his wrist—only another few minutes of  _ that, _ he hopes—then Dylan raises the knife.

The blade bites into the skin of Mark’s palm, the pain sharp and cold for an instant before the blood wells up. Mark’s hand spasms around Kyle’s, probably painfully tight, but Kyle just strokes over the back of Mark’s knuckles and doesn’t even try to pull away.

Mark’s blood drips into the bowl, then Dylan passes Kyle a wad of gauze for him to press to the cut. It hurts, pain pounding in time with the beat of his heart. He hisses when Kyle pats at the cut with the gauze.

“Sorry,” Kyle murmurs. He doesn’t let up, though. He’s not going to let Mark bleed everywhere just because he’s being a baby. 

“KC,” Dylan says, “fire.” He raises the bowl.

“Me?” Kyle looks confused. “Why me?”

Dylan looks at him like he’s being an idiot. “Who else would it be?” he asks.

Kyle shrugs and raises a hand. His face tenses in concentration, then a thin trail of white smoke rises from the bowl. 

“That better not set off the fire alarm,” Mark says, because he just will  _ not _ be able to deal with that if it happens.

Fortunately, it doesn’t. Magic smoke, maybe? Mark can’t explain it.

When everything in the bowl is burned to ash, Dylan dips his fingers into it. He coats the tips of three fingers in white ash, then leans forward and traces three lines down the centre of Mark’s forehead.

“I’m going to go wash my hands,” Dylan says abruptly. He gets up and wanders off to the kitchen sink, leaving Mark and Kyle alone on the couch.

Kyle looks searchingly at Mark’s face, intense like he’s looking for the threads of the spell. “Do you feel it?” he asks.   


All Mark can feel is the heat of Kyle’s body so close to his own, his warm scent burning away his anxious thoughts. He wonders if Kyle’s mouth is as hot as his skin. He licks his lips. “Feel what?” he asks. His voice is low and almost hoarse. His eyes catch on the way Kyle’s throat works.

“The curse,” Kyle says. “Can you tell if it’s gone?”   


Kyle’s eyelashes are so long. It’s hard to tell, sometimes, because they’re pale, but they are. Long and elegant and pale red-gold, ringing his clear blue eyes. 

“I don’t know,” Mark says. 

Their bodies are angled towards each other on the couch. They’re still holding hands. Kyle still has the bloody gauze pressed to Mark’s cut hand, making an unbroken circle.

Kyle takes a deep breath. “Mark—”   


“The curse is broken,” Dylan says loudly. He returns to the room and gathers his supplies, placing them back into his bag. He slings it over his shoulder and looks at Mark. “Sorry for hitting on you, bro. Major fucked up.” His extends a fist and Mark bumps knuckles with him.

“Thank you,” he says. “I don’t know how to repay you.” 

Dylan shrugs. “It’s no big deal. I owed KC one, anyway.” Inexplicably, Dylan winks at Kyle. “Anyway, I’d check the mages on the teams you’ve played recently. One of them probably got pissed off at you or something. See if you can get him suspended over it. Whoever he is, he’s giving us a bad name by placing curses like this.” He gives them a half-salute and heads out. 

The apartment is quiet when he goes, but not silent. Mark can hear Kyle breathing softly on the couch beside him, steady and comforting. They’re still holding hands. 

“You’re still holding my hand,” Mark says finally, weirdly calm about the whole thing.

Kyle jumps a little and starts to pull away, stammering an apology. Mark just tightens his grip. 

“I didn’t say you should stop,” he says. He turns his hand so he and Kyle are palm to palm and watches Kyle’s eyes go wide when he laces their fingers together. “Have you figured it out yet?”

“What?” Kyle, understandably, seems a little distracted. 

“Why the curse didn’t affect you,” Mark says. “Do you know why?” 

“I—I don’t—You—” Kyle looks wild-eyed and nervous, his hands trembling against Mark’s. 

Mark isn’t used to seeing him like this. He wants it to stop; he wants Kyle to relax.

Mark lifts his bloodied hand and touches Kyle’s face. The cut is gone, only lasting as long as Dylan needed it to, but the blood is still there and his hand leaves red streaks on Kyle’s skin. Kyle freezes—hah—and snaps his mouth shut. 

His skin is as warm as Mark always imagined it would be, and it grows hotter under Mark’s touch as his face flushes almost as red as the blood on it.

“You’re so warm,” Mark murmurs, half to himself. He strokes his thumb over Kyle’s cheekbone. He wonders how hot Kyle would feel under his mouth. 

“It’s the fire,” Kyle says, his voice just on the edge of even. “It’s in my blood.” 

Mark brushes a lock of Kyle’s hair behind his ear. “I like it,” he says. He leaves his fingers in Kyle’s hair and leans a little closer. “So. Do you know why you weren’t affected? Or do you want me to tell you?”

Kyle swallows hard. His gaze drops to Mark’s mouth for half a second before flicking back up to his eyes. Mark forces himself not to smile, not to give it away just yet, but. Kyle knows. There’s no way he doesn’t, not now. 

Kyle’s free hand drops to Mark’s thigh, hot even through his jeans. “Tell me,” Kyle breathes.   


Mark shows him instead.

He curls his hand around the back of Kyle’s neck and pulls him in, slowly enough that Kyle could pull away just in case Mark’s read everything wrong, but Kyle’s eyes flutter shut and he leans closer, hand tight around Mark’s leg.

Kyle sighs against Mark’s mouth when they kiss. Tension leaves his body, leaving him loose and relaxed against Mark. His hair is so soft and Mark strokes his fingers through it, wanting to feel everything.

The kiss is slow and easy, neither of them trying to take it any further. When they part, they stay close enough to keep their foreheads pressed together. Kyle pulls Mark’s hand to his chest and holds it over his heart. Kyle’s eyes are still shut, his eyelashes trembling and his breathing unsteady.

“You love me,” Mark whispers. He nudges their noses together and flattens his palm against Kyle’s chest, feeling his heartbeat through his shirt.

Kyle doesn’t open his eyes, but he nods slightly against Mark. He licks his lips, exhales shakily. Mark can feel his warm breath against his mouth. “And you—What about you?” He’s trying so hard not to let Mark see how nervous he is, but Mark can feel the way his heart beats faster.

“Kyle,” Mark says, barely more than a sigh. He turns his head enough to catch Kyle’s mouth in another kiss, this one deeper and more intense, and Kyle chases his mouth when he pulls away. He cups Kyle’s cheek. “I love you, too.”

There’s nothing slow about the kisses that follow. Kyle catches Mark’s bottom lip in his teeth, nipping carefully before Mark pulls him back in and slips his tongue into Kyle’s mouth.

Kyle moves his hand from Mark’s thigh to slide under his shirt, stroking hot fingers against the soft skin of his waist. Mark pushes impossibly closer, heat rising under his skin that has nothing to do with fire magic.

His nose twitches. Something smells weird, something sharp beneath the scent of  _ Kyle _ that is all Mark can focus on. Mark tries to ignore it and gets his hands in Kyle’s hair, but the smell becomes more noticeable and finally Mark wrenches himself away.

Kyle stares at him, eyes wide and dark, face flushed and mouth red. He looks confused, but Mark only sees that for a second before he notices the  _ on fire lampshade _ behind Kyle.

He makes a strangled noise and points in horror as orange flames lick over the fabric. 

“Oh, fuck,” Kyle says, half-turning and waving a hand. The fire goes out immediately. 

“What,” Mark says, “the heck.” 

Kyle looks embarrassed. “Um. Sorry. That hasn’t happened since I was a teenager. I’ll replace the lamp.”

“Kyle.”   


“Yeah?”

“Did you set my lamp on fire because I kissed you?” 

Kyle flushes and looks away. “It happens sometimes when I lose control,” he says. “It’s happened when I—uh. It won’t happen again. Probably.” 

Mark presses Kyle back against the couch cushions. “You know,” he says, conversational, “I won’t be mad if it does.” He kisses Kyle’s neck. “As long as nobody gets hurt, well. It sounds like a challenge.” Unmistakable evidence of Kyle losing control because of  _ Mark. _ He likes that idea. He scrapes his teeth over Kyle’s throat.

Kyle inhales sharply and grabs Mark’s hips. His hands are perfectly tight and Mark kisses his neck again. Kyle likes the idea, too. 

“You can try,” Kyle says, voice rough and eyes hot.

That, of course, is the moment the fire alarm decides to go off.

**Author's Note:**

> i said this on twitter but i will say it here as well just because i think it's funny: scheif blows kc against a table or something and when they're done, there are handprints scorched into the edge of the tabletop. this is canon. also canon is scheif using kc like a human hot water bottle. winnipeg is cold, okay?
> 
> [tumblr](https://symphony7inamajor.tumblr.com)
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/symphony7inAmaj)


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